


The Professor: A Sequel

by CynaraM



Series: The Professor [2]
Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: AU, Ambiguous Age, Angst, Dominance, F/M, Fluff, Recreational Drug Use, Shameless Smut, Submission, Teacher-Student Relationship, avert your eyes Howard, classroom au, glovefic, oh no! plot!, professional misconduct, really rather strong stuff, such glovefic, very recreational
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-23 15:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynaraM/pseuds/CynaraM
Summary: If you read the first one, you know this is the kind of thing most people never take out of the drawer.  That said, I am fond of these two, and there is a healthy bit of fluff along with the delightfully raunchy sex.NB: the ending is a teeny bit unsatisfying.  I am planning more stories.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would apologize, but all the hits on the first one suggest I am not alone. Don't you realize you're encouraging me?

“It will atone — it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her?”  
-Charlotte Brontë

 

He'd noticed her on the first day of class. How could he not?

Teaching was a necessary evil. He did it adequately, because it offended his sensibilities to do a job poorly, and he did it with a minimum of fuss. 

He distributed a substantial syllabus. Outlining expectations with absolute clarity spared him irritation later. The roomful of students had first-day expressions on their faces: anxiety, rebellion, boredom, the desperate look that settles in towards the end of the first day when they realise its promise of a fresh start is a lie. They would settle down when they saw he had no desire to torment them. His eyes passed over the class as he spoke. Gaps would appear in the seating plan as they transferred to other classes, seeking warmer, happier instructors. That was not the point of today's lecture, but it was not unwelcome as a side effect. Was there a scientist among them? If so, he wished them luck. 

He was musing along these lines when something stopped him dead. One face out of the sullen late-adolescent throng glowed with an unexpected emotion: fascination. It was a girl with golden hair confined in a regulation braid. Her uniform was neat and threadbare, and she was showing wrist at the cuff. No-one could be that purely enraptured by his classroom rules, yet she was hanging on his every word. 

He almost paused in the middle of his late-submission policy (it was brief: he had, he told them, no late-submission policy). He collected himself and finished the lecture. “If you, your parents, your attorney, or your aunt on the board of directors wish to register a complaint with the administration, please take a form out of the wall file by the door.” The wall file and its sheaf of papers were covered in dust. 

His eyes drifted back to the girl. Was she delighted? Her expression was subdued, a private smile, but he could see the glee in the way her hands tightened on her elbows. “Review the course package. Read the marking scheme in detail.” A few of them actually did. The girl pretended to, but she watched him covertly; never mind her. No doubt she found something about him amusing. Yes, that could be it. He reframed her fascination as mockery, her smile as jeering. A creature as powerless as a student grasped at any kind of superiority. 

Murmurs started as his attention relaxed. A handsome young man with an air of easy self-confidence raised his hand. “Professor, would you tell us something about yourself?” It was an interview question, Cabal decided, meant to undermine his authority. How tiresome. He cared nothing for his authority over these pupae, except inasmuch as it made his job simpler: but he cared very much about that.

He applied his own Socratic method. “Mr. Kirkwall, is it not? Do you doubt my qualifications?” He should, at least the specific ones that had appeared on Cabal’s curriculum vitae when he applied for the teaching position. 

Kirkwall looked uncertain. “No, professor.”

“Is this the appropriate forum for a chat about housepets and my favourite colour?”

“N- no, professor. I mean, I just thought-”

Cabal timed his interruption with surgical precision. “Did you expect me to make revelations of a more personal nature?”

The young man was flushed and in full retreat. “No, sir.”

“Do you have,’ and he let his accent crystallise just faintly around the words of this last question, “any further questions, Kirkwall?”

“No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

“In future, when you raise your hand, wait to be instructed to speak.” 

There. One chore done for the year. He glanced over the class as he took his seat behind the desk.

Barrow. The girl’s name bubbled up from the memorized seating plan, and it was Barrow, Leonie. She didn't look amused now. She stared at him, mouth barely open. His eye caught the single rock of her hips against the hard shaped composite of the chair seat, her thighs tucked tight together, and he heard a rushing in his ears.

A dangerous theory occurred. He searched for flaws in it eagerly, then desperately. His heartbeat spiked, and his hands were clammy inside his gloves. He had imagined it, he insisted to himself. It was a coincidence. She had probably been thinking of her rugby-playing beau or the girl across the aisle. 

He did not look at her again. The left side of the classroom was dead to him. He could feel her gaze. Could she be trying to attract his attention with those enraptured looks? It was rare, but a few students of any gender might try to exchange a few gazes of youthful adoration for some consideration from their instructor. 

Well, he would find out shortly. There would be a lineup at his desk at the end of the period. The ingratiating ones, the perfectionists, the few who were so desperate to be seen by someone, anyone, that they tried the unlikeliest of mentors. And in his limited experience, the manipulative ones couldn't resist that first point of contact. 

But when the line formed, she was not there. Never mind. His real work was about to start, after the wearisome prelude of the school day. But she would not be dismissed.

By mid-term, he was infuriated. She was enraging. She arrived late, she wore her uniform artfully askew, and her scrawled and blotted homework could have been completed by a left-handed dog. She addressed him as anything but ‘sir’ or ‘Herr Cabal.’ And what of her inexplicable failure to retain section two - and only section two - of the nomenclature unit? This disability had vanished at exam time, to be replaced with near-flawless recall. He knew she hadn't cheated. He knew it. What the hell was she doing? 

His own behaviour had been, if anything, worse. She was a _student_. He had some standards, didn't he? But no, he didn't. If he had, he wouldn't be thinking about that wildly curling lock that escaped her braid most days. He wouldn't be showing off in front of her, as he was undoubtedly doing. Well, he replied to himself, the behaviours that intrigued her came naturally to him. Should he change? A ridiculous idea.

But he could see what she wanted. Oh, it was written on her, if you knew how to look. The self-conscious way she would sometimes follow a direct instruction, though she loved thwarting him, as a rule. The way she stilled when he was close, hardly breathing, but her colour rising. 

But no. That was not, even, what she really wanted, or at least she didn’t want it from him; she would be justly horrified if he touched her. He was safe because it was impossible. He was older. Not, something whispered, so much older. Older, he insisted. Old enough, at least, to know better than to lust after a co-ed with father issues. He clung to that thought when his eye caught hers in the middle of class, and the look that ignited in hers imperilled the gas lines that ran to the lab benches.

She only met his eyes across the classroom. When he was closer, to return an assignment perhaps, her eyes dropped to his shoes or his hands. _So bold in your head and so shy when I’m beside you, Leonie?_ He shook himself mentally. But the surer he became, the more intoxicating it was.

He shouldn't have touched her. It had been nothing. He was walking up and down the rows, ostensibly to be available for help but really to keep them on task. She had, unusually, asked him a question about the problem he had set them. “Professor, I don't quite follow this.” She was thinking about her work for once. He relaxed a little. 

He couldn't see the page over her shoulder. Absently, he put two gloved fingers on her shoulder and pressed her back into her chair. 

Why had he touched her? It had encouraged her. It had encouraged him. It had made him think about kneeling in the aisle, pulling her head back, and marking her throat with his mouth. The reality had been bad enough. That light, impersonal touch made her eyes snap to his in surprise, and he he suddenly wanted her on his lap instead, straddling him, his mouth on her neck, rocking herself against his thigh for the clumsy bit of friction. He craved it, him at that desk right there, her spread out on its surface….

He straightened away from her desk, from her scent. “Reread the instructions,” he rasped and cleared his dry throat. That was usually the issue.

Her class fell at the end of the day. The room had emptied. She never stayed behind: was that pride or good sense? He was about to leave. As he crossed to the light switch, something caught his eye. It was her datebook. Each student was expected to keep one with time marked out for homework, clubs, prayer, study. She doodled in hers; he'd seen her doing it while he lectured. 

He should call after her, or take it to her at the tram stop where he had seen her waiting in all weathers (she tended to forget her umbrella). Or, he could take it for safekeeping and return it to her later. The custodial staff had a generous interpretation of ‘waste paper,’ and it might not be there tomorrow. He could flip through it to establish its owner, though it was clearly under her seat. He could find out what she drew while he spoke. 

He flipped the heavy switches that extinguished the classroom lights and left the book untouched behind him.

He walked down the hall. Excellent. He took a breath and let it out slowly. Perhaps when he saw her next, the spell would be broken.

She was walking towards him. Now. Towards him. He considered turning around, seeking the safety of his classroom, but no, that was ridiculous. She was tall. Her breasts moved with her determined strides. She was intent on some thought; it took a moment before she registered his presence. She coloured, and he thought his heart might stop at the loveliness of that pink glow mantling her neck and cheeks, at her sudden confusion. He wanted to put a gentling hand on the back of her neck to calm her, but that would never do and…. 

He did the first thing that popped into his head. “School policy clearly forbids lip paint.” His voice might have been a stranger’s, crisp and clear. 

***  
***  
***

He’s like several men, she thinks. The first likes gardening, argues with his brother over the telephone, cooks an omelette she would cheerfully kill for. He will lie naked in her arms for hours. His pale eyelashes catch sunlight like sparks in the morning. He sang her a lullaby once, voice cracking sweetly over simple German words she couldn’t understand. He surprises himself when he’s with her. He's a secret from the world. 

The second is an irritable academic - of sorts. He spends days in his laboratory, wouldn't know a flirtatious look if one walloped him across the face, hates practically everyone, is capable of endless work and infinite pains. He owns five guns she knows of. He isn't a secret from anyone, except maybe, she wonders, certain representatives of law and order. She still doesn’t know what he’s working on.

The third is the one she's facing now. He's silent. He's often silent. He will position her or gesture rather than speak. She's getting better at following his lead. 

Sometimes she disobeys to see what he’ll do. Kneeling on the floor, she raises her hands to her breasts. She pinches her nipples and sighs in her throat, not without some calculation. A moment later, her wrists are wrenched behind her and cuffed. She knows he's staring at her nipples now, pink and erect. She tries not to smirk. 

She hears his belt. He unbuckles, works his buttons open. He’s trying to look calm, but she can see it in his hands, how much he wants it. She does, too; he know how easy to please she is after he takes her mouth for a few minutes, how accommodating her pussy is, how wide she'll spread herself for him, hoping. There are so many reasons to take her mouth. Later, he’ll penetrate her, hold her in place, and stay inside her, immobile. She lies there, shuddering, trying not to succumb to the urge to move on him: because as much as she wants it, she wants to submit more. 

This is the thing she would never have guessed about herself: what a relief it is to fall into their simple little story of pleasure and rules. It’s sublime, and she sinks into its warm bath as often as she can. Every once in a while, there is another man. Once she was blindfolded, and she will always wonder if that was one she knew. She loves wondering if that was one she knew. He will have guessed that about her.

But these days, the other man is dismissed before she's exhausted. Because after the other man goes, her professor claims her back again, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, slow. He makes her come until she's shaking, he fucks her sore and weeping with happiness. He loses himself in it, too, and sweet, filthy words fall from his lips. And when he's exhausted them both, at those times her deadly, narrow master and her sweet blond lover blur, and as he holds her, after, some of the remoteness and some of the awe both touch him.

And then, they clean up and he puts the kettle on.

“What? You don't speak any German?”

“My timetable didn't allow it. I did do some French -“ 

“Ha. Even that simpleton Dupuis found your progress sluggish. You didn’t apply yourself.” He snaps the tea towel, folds it, hangs it on its hook.

She looked at him strangely. “That was in my progress report. That exact wording.” She let the implied question hang.

He struggled for a moment, then relented. “Yes. You kept looking at me. I had to know more about you. So. We must do something about your German.”

“A student was looking at you so you looked up her progress reports. Did you break into the files?”

“Why bother? The office clerk pulled them for me.”

“Didn't you think that might attract attention?” He was so careful to ignore her in public, only give her the notice he gave any other student. 

He dabbed at a tea stain on the pot. She thought he was going to ignore the question for a moment. “I didn't intend to- you must understand, this was before that day. That day you stood in my classroom and took your _verdammt_ blouse off.” Leonie ignored the curse. He had been begging for it. He continued. “I meant to ignore it, ignore you. But you were giving me looks I could feel in my _fingernails._ I was beginning to behave inappropriately. So: I looked you up and found out the student testing my patience in every conceivable way, with her sloppy work and untidy uniform and impertinent forms of address-“

“Those bothered you? I'm so glad.” 

“-that she was described by others, including by her previous science instructors, as an angel of order and sweetness.” His voice had become very dry. “I have yet to meet this - ow.” He rubbed his side. “So your bad behaviour was not your habit. It was not caused by the subject, even. It was me.” And the way he said that last word, as if he was hesitant to believe it even now, made her heart rise. 

“Of course it was you, Herr Professor.” She kissed him. 

***

The next day, at the school, there was a box in his case. It was hand-sized and meticulously wrapped in navy blue tissue. A dull gold satin ribbon was tied around it in a single bow. It was a lovely thing, but it provoked deep suspicion in Cabal. He had received more death threats than gifts by a comfortable margin. 

He had the resources of the school lab, at least. He would not jostle the item through the streets to his home before investigating it. He picked up the case by its handles and carried it, at arm's length, into the lab at the back of the classroom.

When Leonie arrived he was wearing a thick apron, gauntlets, and a welding helmet he had borrowed from the technology department. She had a moment of disorientation before realising it was him. “Oh! Professor.” She tried not to call him Cabal at school, let alone Johannes. “You look like a Martian. What are you doing? May I…. Oh.” She giggled. 

She couldn't see the face behind the mask, but she could see his shoulders straighten in pique. 

“It's from me. It's not fatal, I promise. Were you very frightened? I'm sorry.” 

“I was taking sensible precautions.” He removed the protective gear hastily. 

“Open it.” She sat on a stool and beamed at him. He couldn't stay annoyed when she looked like that. He assessed her furtively; she was happy and relaxed, but the shadows under her eyes were still dark. He wanted to sigh. Her aunt’s health was bad, and she spent much of her time caring for her relative. He took the stool opposite her. He would be convincingly pleased with the contents of the box. He swore upon the secret altar of his soul that if it was wearable, he would wear it, even if she had lost her infuriating, brilliant mind and bought him a patterned cravat.

The bow was already gone, severed by a scalpel and removed with an eye to hidden wires. He unwrapped the paper, his eyes on her face more than his hands. “Is there an occasion?”

“The occasion is that you won’t tell me your birthday, and I’m too well-bred to go through your wallet to find out.”

“You wouldn’t have found it there.” He had to stop doing that. Was he trying to make her curious?

“No. But it would have been something. As it is, I’m choosing today.”

“Are you?” It was a nothing thing to say. He closed his mouth. He was turning into an idiot.

It was a simple black box. Inside, under a layer of batting, was a handle. “You gave me a knife handle.” At least it wasn’t a cravat.

“Take a closer look.”

“Oh.” It was a flick knife. He depressed the switch, and the blade arced out faster than the eye could follow. He almost smiled in pleasurable surprise. “A knife? Have you joined a street gang in your plentiful spare time?”

“I had to go into this squalid little shop to get it. It was thrilling.” She was smiling back at him fondly. “Do you like it?”

“I like it very much, _Fräulein_. Thank you.” He dropped it in his pocket. It would need a better sharpening than the factory had given it, but the mechanism seemed sound. And to think he had maligned her by thinking she would buy him accessories. He had restitution to make, even if she didn’t know it. “Did you lock the door?”

Her smile widened. “I did.” She drew the key out from under her shirt. It made a warm feeling spread through his chest to see her wearing it. He stood up casually. She choked back her undignified squeal when he scooped her off her stool and ran towards his desk. 

A gift, he thought. He could give her a gift. It was a pleasing thought, and it simply hadn't occurred before.  
…

“I have something for you.” 

“A present? Really, a present?” They’d had a long and lovely afternoon at his house, and she was mentally preparing herself to go home and go back on duty, but now she was excited. Gifts usually meant some new idea he'd had. When he dropped the item into her hand, her brow folded on itself. “A car key? Is this a car key?” She seemed not to understand, despite her statement of fact.

He rolled his eyes. “And yet you are a top student. Yes, it is a car key, which unlocks and starts a car. The car is yours. The car is parked at a garage across the street.” He smiled. “Would you like to see it?”

His smirk faded as she stayed silent and turned the key over in her hands. “Cabal, you can't buy me a car.”

“I already have,” he pointed out. “You could take lessons. It will be easier for you to get to school, and,” he said delivering the clincher, “it would be useful when you take your aunt for her medical appointments.” Her face had not brightened. 

“I can't possibly accept it.”

He was downcast by her refusal, and that irked him. He had thought the idea was a good one. “Why. Because you think I am trying to buy you? To oblige you to me somehow?” 

“No! You wouldn't do that. But… I don't know. Let me think. This is extravagant. I couldn't hope to return the favour, and that would bother me.”

He wished, grumpily, that he could deny it. “Why would I want you to return the favour? That isn't rational.”

“Perhaps not, but it's a fact, and it's one you should care about. And I don't ever want anyone to think that I'm with you because of gifts. I have my pride, you know.”

His tone went caustic. “This ’anyone’ would be the mythical first person we tell about our relationship? You are worried that this imaginary person may judge you?”

Her brows flattened into a hard line. “They'd never believe it was your personality that attracted me.”

They could bicker all night. _Think._ There must be something she didn’t understand, or she would accept the gift. He loosened his cravat, thinking his motivation through. He threw himself into a chair. “I would like to make your life easier. Better.”

Her eyes filled. “Oh. _Johannes_. You do.” She knelt by his chair. “You do more than anyone, and you let me close to you. That's all I want.”

He drew her into his lap and embraced her as if someone might take her away. Every day she was more precious to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifty bloody hits overnight? You're giving me entirely the wrong message, you know. I'm going to think someone's reading this.

Leonie was bent over the desk. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her cheek rested on the wood. She was blissfully unaware of anything but the measured tread of Professor Cabal behind her until someone tried the door. This had never happened before. Leonie’s head popped up from the desk, and she was not reassured by her tormentor’s disconcerted expression. 

“The cleaner?” he muttered. He raised his voice “I am working. Come back later.”

“Oh, is that you, old chap?’ A muffled voice sounded from beyond the heavy door. “May I have a quick word about the scheduling for next term?”

Cabal cursed. “Borden.” The department head. “Must it be now?” he called. Leonie was already putting herself to rights. There was a trick to the ropes, and she twisted out of them, tried to button up her blouse while wondering where the devil to put the bonds. It didn’t look good, her behind the locked door with Cabal, not one bit. They could hear the tinkle of keys beyond the door. A master key. There was no time for her to retreat to the private office, nowhere to hide except - 

“Mind if I…” came belatedly from the hall. The tumblers of the lock clunked, and the door was open. “Sorry to intrude upon your private kingdom, but we’re having a heads’ meeting, and I was wondering if next year you’d be able to take the level two….”

It was spacious under the desk. Even with Cabal’s legs under it, she had room to arrange herself and wait out what promised to be a lengthy series of questions from the department head, who was sitting on a student’s desk, from the sound of him. Cabal did not want to teach whatever it was the head was trying to foist off on him. The floor was hard. Once Leonie’s fear dissipated, she began to feel bored. 

Bored, then a little devilish. She ran a hand up his leg; he let his knee fall to one side, allowing her access. She played the game he thought she was playing for a few seconds, drawing her fingers lightly over his thighs, grazing his inseam higher and higher - and then she started on his trouser buttons. She felt his faint flinch back, but he could hardly stop her, could he? A man did not break off in the middle of a conversation with his departmental superior in order to wrestle with his trouser buttons.

Thank goodness he was wearing braces, so she didn’t have to undo a belt. 

With deft little fingers she opened his fly, stroked around inside to find the opening of his drawers, and withdrew his soft cock. Oh my, this was interesting. She so rarely had access to him in this state. He must really be annoyed with her. Either that, or the arrangement of next term’s schedule was of far more interest to him than she’d thought possible. 

However, his legs were open beneath the desk. Angry he might be, but he was also curious. Or was that a dare? She took him in her mouth, enjoying being able to fit every inch of him down to the root, in his current state. He gasped and covered it with a sneeze. She probed the base of him with her tongue. Oh, he must be furious. “Pardon me.”

“Not at all, Cabal. Hope you haven’t got that chill that’s going around?”

She lapped at him delicately. She sucked him slowly in and out of her mouth. She could feel his heartbeat stutter and race. He swelled as she went, but there was still a certain flexibility that aided some maneuvers, and she enjoyed it. It was rather luscious this way. But in very short order he was at full size, hard, hot, and skin so smooth and soft she loved to stroke his skin with her cheek. She did so now. She probed into his trousers and stroked his balls, which always made him shiver. There was a brief pause, but Borden only offered an alternate, equally undesirable arrangement of the term. Cabal leaned back in his chair.

She moved her wet lips over him with deliberation. If Borden discovered them, it wouldn’t be due to anything she did. She felt Cabal’s thighs tense; he liked to thrust into her while she did this, and she liked that too - but it was delicious, feeling him tremble trying not to. The chair might creak. She pressed her breasts against his leg and ran her fingers up his thighs. She wished she could capture one of his hands and put it between her breasts.

He was so, so hard. He must be reacting to the risk as much as she; oh, she wanted him inside her so badly. She didn't know what she wanted more: Borden to stay, so she could make Cabal finish in her mouth in his company- or for him to leave, so she could get some attention herself. She didn't stroke herself; she knew she'd make some noise, and they’d be lost. 

She loved the feel of his skin against her lips; the feeling of blood rushing below the surface, the small, urgent jerks as she licked the places he liked.

She sped her rhythm, and the conversation grew stilted, until Borden said, “you don’t look entirely well, if you don’t mind my saying. You’re a bit flushed in the face. Don’t work yourself into an illness, sir; go home and tuck up warm with a flannel belt and a hot toddy. Always does me a world of good.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” He wasn’t controlling his breathing perfectly. “Well, I won’t detain you.”

The department head accepted his dismissal meekly. Leonie felt trepidation as she heard his steps retreat. She didn’t stop. Not until the door closed and Cabal’s hands clasped hard on her head, stilling her. She felt a flare of excitement; was he going to hold her in place and thrust into her mouth while she knelt below the desk? 

No. No, he walked to the door. Excellent thought. Bright man. At least they couldn’t be interrupted without warning. 

“Stupid wambling Borden. Up on the desk. Up,” he barked, when she hesitated. “On my desk.” He was furious. “I should have had the lock changed, idiot.” 

He relocked the door. As he stalked back to her, she raised her skirt. He slapped her hands away and undid the waistband himself. He threw the garment into the corner. Her shirt gaped open. He took hold of her legs and rolled her over onto her stomach. He pushed her thighs apart and stood close, and she couldn’t wait for the first touch of him. It came without warning, his cock just pressing, just threatening. She was breathing like a runner. Please. 

One taunting half-push inside her that made her tighten around him, to feel his girth inside her, his hardness pushing her open, and then he was gone. She whined. 

“Oh. So that’s what you want? So that’s how you think this ends?” He slapped a hand onto the desk by her ear, and she jumped, her heart jumping and racing. His weight was on her; she could feel his waistcoat buttons pressing into her back as he muttered in her ear. His cock pressed against her again, and she pushed her hips up, but he moved away before she could touch him. That _bastard_.

“You need a reminder.” Slap on her backside with a hard open hand. “I am not here for your satisfaction.” Slap. “You are here for _mine_.” And when she was braced for another slap, he dragged his fingers through her slit to wet them. The touch sent pleasure rippling through her. It was not repeated; she could hear him stroking himself hard and waited, lewd and eager; she felt the hot spurts of his seed splashing on her.

She closed her eyes, hanging on to the moment as long as she could.

***  
Later, she was curled up in his lap, head on his shoulder, muttering. “I could kill you. I am so wound up, I could…”

“Then take care of yourself. I haven’t forbidden it.” He thought this was funny. 

“That’s not the point.” She wanted him to do it. She wanted him to… oh lord, look forbidding and stern, whisper about her transgressions and stroke her clit until she begged him to stop. That would do for a start. She shifted uncomfortably in his lap. He was vastly entertained. 

“It’s no more than you deserve.” He bent his lips to her ear. “What if I had invited him to try you instead?”

The idea shocked her out of her grouch. Oh my. The thought was revolting, wasn’t it? But. Not him, but…. 

Professor Cabal hid his smile as her shocked look was quickly followed by absorbed contemplation. He wouldn't, not like that, but let her wonder.

The next week, a new key appeared in her book bag after class; this one was on a long thin chain, meant to hang between her breasts. The key depended from a curved silver clasp that was, not at first glance but surely not by accident, a capital ‘C.’

***

The thick soft cloth settled around her like night. She tried to relax as his hands wrapped it tight. There was something comforting about it, she told herself, like being wrapped in a heavy blanket in winter, or like the ropes he had bound her with occasionally. He was folding it somehow and passing it around her. Her fists clenched behind her, and she decided no, no, this was not good, this was _notgood notgood notgood_.

She tried to say “Stop, Johannes,” in a collected voice, but when she opened her mouth the cloth seemed to fill it, and she struggled and choked.

Her face was clear in a moment. His folded brow, his eyes came into view. “Leonie. Leonie, what’s wrong. Tell me.”

She couldn’t speak for a moment; she took deep gasps of air. “The cloth on my face. I felt like I was stifling.”

“Let me get you out. Can you hold still for a moment?”

He produced his knife. She didn’t shy away from the blade as it slipped between her and the draperies; the velvet sprang away from the sharp edge and fell to the floor in short lengths. It was like coming up from underwater. She threw her arms around him before he could even put the knife away. He murmured in her ear, in German, she thought, something soothing. She wished she could understand it. 

He was fully dressed, she naked except her drawers. He took her directly to the office space off the back of the classroom. He seemed reluctant to enclose her again, so she pulled his arms around her. “Hold me.”

He did. “I am sorry. I am sorry.” 

She relaxed into the tight clasp of his arms. They sat in the chair and she calmed. 

“Relax,’ she said, burrowing into the nook between his side and the chair. “You weren’t to know. I’ve always disliked having my face covered. I’m not very good with being wrapped up in general, really, but I thought this might be different.”

He grunted irritably. “I didn’t know because I didn’t ask if you were claustrophobic. I should always ask. It is the best practice.”

“I like not being asked.” 

“Yes, but it is risky. This can happen, or worse.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No. It was. You put too much trust in me. You are young. You are inexperienced.”

Her head rose from his shoulder and a blue eye fixed on his, a spark of irritation in its depths. “So I’m an idiot?”

“Not in the least. But being intelligent and self-possessed does not make you older or more experienced. I am not worthy of that degree of trust, but I have taken it anyway.”

She didn't like the way he was talking. “You’re not that much older than I am.”

“Not in years, maybe.” 

“That’s how we measure age on this planet. Shut up and cuddle me, Cabal. Of course you're worthy of my trust.”

“How would you know?” But he did. She rested on his shoulder, and he rubbed her limbs, put a hand on the back of her head. She felt better very soon, but they stayed that way for a long time. They were disinclined to part.

***

For a week, there were no visits, not even to his house. She hadn’t noticed at first - she had been busy - but as soon as she did, she caught him at the end of the day. “What’s going on? Have you… you're not….” 

“I am not planning anything drastic,” he said, keeping an eye down the hall. “Be patient. Tuesday.” is all he would say. 

She met him in his office, but instead of being mock-violated in pleasurable detail as she had hoped, she was positioned in his desk chair. Sitting. At his desk. With a pile of pages and a pen. _Human biology questionnaire_ was written on the top sheet in a familiar hand. Her heart sank. “This isn't some dreary thing asking permission to ravish me in a specifically prescribed method every second Tuesday, is it?”

“No. No one really does that. Besides, it would require explicit negotiations, and you already indicated your unenthusiasm for that. This document is far more work, but it is an acceptable compromise.”

Pages upon pages of his fine writing: it must have taken him hours. She flipped through it. “I may need to go to my doctor back home for some of this. Are you planning to expose me to diptheria?”

“No. But if we continue.” He amended himself. “As we continue, the more information I have, the better. That will give me enough data, I hope, to avoid endangering or distressing you.” 

“I don't see how all of this is relevant. Food allergies? Look at all this. Dental history? And what's this long-answer section at the back?” Her eyes popped. “Oh.”

“Yes. Every question is there for a reason. Now.” He took out his watch. “You have ninety minutes. Begin.”

“You aren't serious.”

“I am quite serious.” He bit off the words in a very serious way. “The sooner you answer every question in detail, the sooner we can return to other things. I have plans,” he said tightly. His eyes dropped to her body.

Oh. She bent her head to the desk and began to write. He settled himself behind a desk to watch her for the entire testing period.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get kinky.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t. He had said. 

And she could ignore that, of course: in theory. She thwarted him and teased him in all kinds of ways, but she never intentionally ignored a direct order, or at least not while she was undressed. If it suited her. But he’d never asked her to do something impossible before. Impossible. 

“You are not to come unless I tell you.”

“….Until you tell me to?”

“Unless. I may not.”

Her eyes narrowed. She thought she spotted a weakness in this game. 

“I will be very displeased if you fail intentionally, or do not put out your best effort.” Her heart sank. She knew that tone. It was Death to Fun. Play by the rules now, or be frustrated and bored later.

Some perverse corner of her mind cackled at her predicament as he seated her on the desk facing his chair. The very position made her body betray her. Her hips loosened, her skin heated. It should have felt odd; after all, she looked down on him from her seat. But the higher position felt precarious. There had been no kisses, no caresses, no little pinches or slaps, even. He just pressed her breastbone until she lay back before him, his arm heavy on her chest and stomach. It felt very strong.

He pushed her legs apart. She felt the flush of self-consciousness and arousal. But that was nothing to what she felt when she saw his smooth gold head bend down between her thighs. 

She tried to think about her research paper. About the weather, sleet turning to rain. About - about Christmas holidays at home. God. His tongue worked gently on her clitoris and she tried to pretend it was happening to someone else. Which was a pity, really, because he was astonishing at this, the slow slide of lips and tongue. But if she let herself think about it for just a moment - him, right from this afternoon’s biology seminar, sitting in the same chair from which he’d criticized her citations, that beautiful mouth compressed into an irritated line at her bibliographic format, the mouth that was now deep between her thighs, devouring her….

All right. Those were dangerous thoughts. She took a deep breath, as clear of shaking as she could manage, to empty her mind and relax her body. In response, he grabbed her hips so hard his fingers dug into her skin, and with one powerful motion, yanked her closer to him. She yelped in surprise and pleasure and rocked against him. The sensations filled her body and brain; there was nowhere to hide. She wanted to be good, she didn’t want to fail him, but she was doomed.

He released her hips and smoothed a calming hand over her belly. It was an unthinkingly proprietorial gesture, and she groaned. “You’re doing so well,’ he murmured. “Very good.” He checked his watch. “Let us say that’s… one-half of the way there.”

“I can’t,’ she said. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” It was a desperate whisper, matched by tiny rocks of her hips.

“You can. You will. Because I say so.” And gently, tenderly, he returned to the assault. 

She was sweating in the cool air of the classroom. There was a hot line of sensation building, and she shied back from it. 

And then, past the initial shock, she began to achieve an equilibrium. It was fragile; it could be broken at any time, but if it was just a question of outlasting his watch, she might… she just might…

He slowed. He pressed harder, and everything inside her started to tighten. It was independent of her control, as if she was a marionette whose strings were pulling. She had to take a deep breath to stave off the orgasm that was coming, the first moment just a flutter in her clitoris he could surely feel. She filled her lungs, and the breath left her lungs in sobs. She had stopped it. She was still a hair’s breadth away. She felt him whisper “good girl,” against her, and oh, that wasn’t fair, that wasn’t fair, she was his good girl, and that made her wet when she thought about it on the bus, never mind here, now. His mouth worked lovingly, in slow surges that washed through her whole body. That tight wire of sensation was red-hot now, and she didn’t know what was going to happen next, but she didn’t think she could stop or control or… 

She wasn’t sure how long that part lasted, but after several eternities he checked his watch. He stopped. 

“Is it… may I….”

“It is not quite time.” What was he doing? He was opening his trousers. Oh god, oh god, what was she expected to do now? What impossible…

“Not until I say so,” he said quietly. And bending her legs cruelly up and back, he pushed into her inch by inch and she cried out like he was murdering her and it was the happiest she’d ever been. She had no defences against the new sensation, but she didn’t topple over the edge, she didn’t. He waited until he was buried inside her, watching her body tense and grab and shiver around the welcome, unwelcome intrusion. And he bent low over her. He kissed her lightly on the lips, and thrust into her again, harder this time. He stroked her clit, and whispered “now.”

***

_Things I know about him:_  
1\. He wasn’t born here. Probably one of the Germanies?  
2\. He has a brother. The brother seems to live far away.  
3\. He knows science.  
4\. He owns and carries a gun.  
5\. He never talks about his past.  
6\. He has enemies.  
7\. He doesn’t seem to spend time with friends or family.  
8\. But he goes away sometimes, or maybe stays here and does something secret? I think he goes away, at least some of the time.  
9\. I suspect he’s better-off than a teacher should be, though he doesn’t spend it on himself.  
Theory: he has some secret project or profession.  
Theory (guess? Observation?): there’s something that worries him. Not the enemies. Something else. 

***

“Lie back on the examination table, Barrow.”

“Sir?”

“The school is requiring a physical exam. A government initiative, they claim.”

“Then why aren’t we doing this at school?”

His look was as blank as deep space. “We are.” Her pulse jumped. When he used that tone, any room was the classroom.

She had to push with her arms and jump up a little to get her rump on the table. The gown gaped open in back at the movement, and the smooth paper of the table was cool on her skin. She had a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Medical offices were uncomfortable places. One was vulnerable and exposed. Things that happened there were theoretically within one’s control, but they rarely felt like it. 

“Will you carry out all the exams?”

His brows rose fractionally. “No. Just yours.”

Even though this was a fiction, she liked that. 

“So you are a doctor, after all?”

“No.’ He didn’t betray his usual annoyance at the imputation. “Open your mouth, please?”

He checked her tonsils with a light and a tongue depressor. It made her think of other times she’d opened her mouth for him. She tried to lower her tongue and relax her throat to show him whatever he was looking for. 

“Face my chair, please.” He twitched open the ties at the back of the gown. His hands were warm on her back, tapping and probing. 

She played the innocent. “Are you a medical student, then?”

“I was. Take a deep breath, please.” Interesting. She wished she could see his face. 

“I’ve heard some bad things about medical students.”

“And another deep breath, released slowly. All true, I can assure you. Please fold down the top of your gown and lie back.” She shrugged out of the soft cotton and folded it neatly above her abdomen. Despite herself, an excited buzz grew in the pit of her stomach. 

He wrote his pocket notebook. “Are you experiencing any unusual symptoms?”

“No.”

“No pain during intercourse?”

“Not what you’d call…. No.” 

He folded the gown down farther, to her waist. One hand curved on her belly and pressed down hard. “Tell me if there is any discomfort.” 

She nodded. Her nipples tightened from the brush of the fabric followed by the exposure. He palpitated her stomach and made a few notes. He did seem to know what he was doing. Then he moved up her body to her breasts.

She tried look unconcerned though heat rose into her cheeks. This shouldn't be arousing. Normal girls did not, outside of regular check-ups, find themselves lying on examination tables under the care of cool-eyed men. If they did, it didn't make them blush. It certainly didn't make them wet. As he worked concentric circles that edged inwards, she wanted him to linger on her nipples, test their responsiveness, pull them or roll them between his fingertips, but he didn’t. His touch was completely professional. It was infuriating.

And then: “your hips at the edge of the table and your knees apart, please. You have no allergy to latex, I believe?”

She spread her legs awkwardly while he watched. He repositioned her knees, moving them farther apart, and then he drew on a pair of gloves. By her feet, he switched on a light so bright she could feel the warmth on her skin. It drove her eyes to the ceiling, but she could feel him seat himself facing her exposed flesh. She had a wave of nervousness. 

“Tell me,’ he said, “if anything is sensitive.” She almost laughed; everything was sensitive. She could feel the warm glow of the halogen bulb on her thighs and slit. She could feel the cool air of the room hitting the place that was already wet. She thought she could feel his gaze on her, drawn to the betraying signs of arousal. He hadn’t touched her yet, but he meant to. He smoothed on a pair of surgical gloves.

And then, gentle fingers dividing her inner folds, spreading her. She took a deep breath; it had a shake in it. His fingers traced the interior of her labia, avoiding her clitoris. He looked closely and ran his fingers over every inch of her, checking for signs of damage or disease. Her body responded enthusiastically, sure from previous experience that she would soon need plenty of lubrication. She bit the inside of her lip in tension and embarrassment. She would stay calm. He moved away and took something from a low cabinet by his side. 

She braced herself for the edged push and spread of a speculum. Instead, she felt the smooth push of his fingers inside her, cold with some kind of lubricant. She tightened around them before she could remind herself this was supposed to be a medical procedure. She hastily made herself relax. She couldn’t see his face beyond the light, so she couldn’t tell if he was amused or displeased; she looked back at the ceiling and focussed on staying impassive, no matter what he did.

He had paused, but now he moved his fingers inside her, slipping over her skin, pressing deep to probe as far as he could. The sensation trickled through her limbs like alcohol, like a drug. She kept her breathing even and slow, but she could feel the moan rising in the back of her throat. 

The sound almost escaped when he took his hands away. She didn’t know what came next, if anything - he wouldn’t be so cruel? - But she didn’t want to wait. 

“No abnormalities there, you’ll be pleased to hear.” His voice was unusually mild, and even that was arousing. It added to the sense that this was a professional interaction, one marred only by the arousal that had her flushed and wet. The long muscles of her thighs wanted to tremble. 

“We’re almost done. We’ll take your temperature, and then the appointment will be over.” He turned to get something else from the cabinet. Was that good news, she wondered, or terribly bad news? She felt a cold, wet pressure, first at her entrance, and then drifting lower. It pressed lightly at her anus, and she forgot to breathe. 

He noticed her reaction - he must have been watching her carefully - and he paused. He stripped off a glove and put his warm hand on her stomach, soothing her, asking an unspoken question. She felt his concern, his care through the touch, though his face was hidden by the brightness of the lamp. The touch had just been unexpected. And rather new. She started breathing again, fast, excited breaths. She nodded. He left that hand there and returned to his work. 

Slowly, in stages, and with plenty of the chilly lubrication, he pressed something inside her. She tensed and relaxed, accepting the small shape. This was a new set of nerves. It was almost as disorienting as it was pleasurable. The object warmed to her body. She panted, spread out on the examination table, prepared for whatever the doctor - medical student - had planned as a finale.

He removed his remaining glove. It hit the floor. “So. The appointment is over.”

“Shall I….” She raised her head. The tiny shape was still inside her. Was he going to leave it there? What would it feel like to leave it there, go about the house, pretend everything was normal with that small hard secret piercing her? 

“No. Lie back.” 

He’d turned the light off, casting himself into shadow. He spread her inner folds again, with his bare fingers. 

“Should you,’ she asked, “be doing that?”

“No. It violates every code of medical ethics.” It was matter-of-fact. It wasn’t quite his classroom voice. It was a new side. "But I have never cared very much for medical ethics." He stroked her lightly, fingers slippery on her. She tried not to moan, it was so good, so perfect.

“You have been dying for this since the moment you lay down. Haven’t you?” 

She flushed. She felt exposed in two ways, now.

He had shed his icy calm; there was arrogance in his voice, and a heat he wasn’t bothering to disguise. “So I am going to lick your beautiful cunt until you come _screaming_. And then I am going to fuck you so hard you will feel it for days, every time you touch yourself thinking about it. Now, lie down and keep your knees apart.” He smiled, a razor-edged thing she hadn’t seen before. It thrilled her. “I warned you about medical students.” 

His tongue flicked hard along everything in turn, and her first orgasm rose like a wave she couldn't control. 

His hands kept her pried open, and the assault didn't cease as she came. It sustained it, kept driving it forward, until she was almost begging him to stop.

“That time didn’t count,” he added coolly, wiping his face with a handkerchief. And he did it again, working her up so cunningly that she did scream, this time. 

When he penetrated her at last, he went slow and hard, letting her feel every inch of him as he pushed into her orgasm-swollen cunt.

He whispered in her ear, filthy things. “There you go. Isn't that what you wanted? Take it. You're wet enough for it. You were wet enough to fuck an army, even before I put my mouth on you. Even before I touched your cunt, isn't that right?”

Yes, she nodded. She ground her hips against his, against the fingers working on her clit. 

“You liked everything I did. I can feel that,” he said, with an obscene roll of his hips. 

“I did.” _I do. Please don't ever stop._

“Come again. Show me how much you love this. Show me how _grateful_ you are.” And he twisted the plug he'd inserted in her earlier, and she broke apart beneath him, clenching, spasming, babbling yes, thank you, thank you, god, thank you. And his final thrusts were so deep she saw stars. They might have hurt if she hadn't been so permeated with pleasure that every sensation was another spur to it.

He’d braceleted her wrists with his fingers as he climaxed, and it gave her another twinge of pleasure in a place she couldn't name. As his body calmed, he eased his grip, caressed up her arms. There was a short silence while they stayed like that, trembling, unspeaking. 

He raised his head from where it had sunk between her breasts. 

“Are you well?”

“Yes. Yes.” She giggled. It had come out too loud, but she didn’t mind. His face relaxed as he saw her uneven, sated smile. Sometimes, he thought, the body could overrule the heart during the act itself, so he watched her for regret or delayed reaction, but no. She just wanted more. He hadn't been too rough, too strange, too crude. 

Whatever was in him never frightened her or put her off; he struggled to understand that, again, to accept it as a hypothesis at least.

*****

“Let's see,” Leonie said in a near-whisper. She kissed his earlobe. “There's your eyes.”

“Trite.”

“Oh, all your other women praise them, too? Fine. Your hair.”

“My hair?” He was frankly disbelieving. His brother had attractive hair. “It’s just hair.”

“Your voice.” She pinked. “It does things to me. In class, here, wherever.”

“My voice,” he said, bewildered, and stopped. It had never occurred to him as a possible subject for erotic fascination in itself. He could say things with it, of course, to produce an effect.

“And your accent.” She hurried on. “The way you stand, and sit. Your hands on the lab equipment. I used to picture them on me in class. All right, I still do that.”

“Depraved.” He tapped her bare shoulder disapprovingly. Well, as disapprovingly as he could manage while sprawled naked in bed with her.

“But it's also… your gentleness. Your kindness. Your generosity. Your decency.”

“Ach. No. You are overstrained. Unwell.” He tried to make it into a joke.

“No, Johannes.” She pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at him earnestly. “You've been decent with me. Generous. You've been so kind. You've been so gentle. I _know_ you have.”

He was blushing, and he looked troubled. “My dear one,” he said, and the conscious way he said it made her stomach flutter. Endearments came hard. He meant them. “Don't put me on a pedestal. There are things about me that you don't know.”

“I know that. But this is true, too.”

He tried to believe it. He wondered that she could.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweet afternoon and an ending.

Leonie sat down on her bed, exhausted. She'd sat up late to finish her work; the school day had been a blur of work and trouble. But this afternoon and evening, she'd managed to get a neighbour to sit with her aunt; she would be able to visit her special tutor. She allowed herself a little dancing wriggle of excitement that wiped the fatigue from her mind.

Should she change her clothing? She had never been able to figure out if the school uniform was something he liked. She liked it, though if she was visiting his home it wasn't discreet. Oh. Oh! He had put something in her bag, in class. He'd made a fuss about moving her bag under her desk, and she'd heard a clink of glass when she picked it up later. There'd been no time to look at it privately until now.

The label read “Eat me.*” It was a common buff label tied to a small glass bottle. A single pill rattled in the bottom. The asterisk, more than the precise hand, told her it was from Cabal. _*Effects include euphoria, relaxation, arousal; not physically addictive; side effects may include…]_ A list of mild symptoms followed. _Do not self-administer._ That man was an inexhaustible well of ideas. What did he have planned now? She smiled.

She’d handed him the bottle with a smile when she’d arrived. He’d seemed pleased to get it. After a cup of tea, he’d stood by her chair and put an affectionate hand on the back of her head. “Are you ready for your pill?” 

She nodded.

“You understand, it will make you more… pliant. Receptive. It may curb that tongue of yours for a little while. Do you need to be anywhere tonight?”

She shook her head. Her aunt could go to bed on her own, and she didn't have anything in the morning. As long as she was back to wake up to her alarm, she would be fine.

“Then this is a good day. Open.”

And he put the pill on her tongue and she swallowed it with the tea he handed her. And then, he took her to bed.

She’d been here many times. It was just as she had imagined it: severe but sunlit and full of soft textures. He undressed her and tucked her in first. The sheets were linen, thin and cool. Did he iron them? The feather quilt clouded around her, and she stretched happily, watching him undress. She loved watching it all come off - the waistcoat, the braces, the shirt and undershirt, socks, trousers and drawers. Finally he was naked, which was best of all. She ogled him openly, and he pretended not to notice. She didn’t know why; he was hardly a modest man in general, but he wasn’t comfortable with leering. She never missed an opportunity. She loved the way his flanks narrowed to his waist.

His arms wrapped her as gently as the quilt. He brushed her hair back, and they whispered together, laughing and caressing each other. He murmured, and she heard his voice rumble in his chest and the quiet thump of his heartbeat. He kissed her hairline, a string of five kisses. He liked to kiss her, whatever part of her was most convenient. It was remarkable that so much tenderness hid inside him. 

He had been tentative, at first, about touching her when they weren't acting their parts. He'd bend down as if he was giving her time to move away. It was sweet and awkward, and before he could straighten, she put her hand on his neck to keep him close for kisses on his cheek and brow. He was taken aback. 

She suspected he hadn't been touched often. He didn't fear it. When he froze, it wasn't terror she felt from him but uncertainty. Was she the first person to hold his face in her hands, to idly stroke his bare chest as they lay wrapped together in bed, to interrupt his dressing ritual in the morning with inconvenient hugs? She thought she might be, as odd as it seemed to her. And as he became accustomed to her extravagant displays of affection, he began, tentatively at first but soon with more confidence, to return it. 

Now, in his bed, she felt relaxed: utterly relaxed. Held and supported in a warm cradle of mattress, cloud-quilt, and Johannes. Her life hadn’t been particularly simple, Leonie thought out of nowhere, but this made up for it all. This bed, this quilt, and this bizarre, kind, wonderful man. She smiled and curled into his shoulder. He held her head to him with one hand and embraced her. 

After a time, he said, “are you affected, _schätzlein_? Let us see.” And he gently pinched her nipple. She purred, a big-cat purr that made a slow zipper sound from her throat downwards. 

“Oh, that sort of… buzzed. Does that make sense? It felt wonderful.”

“It's working. Let us give it a little more time. How do you feel?”

“Splendid. Very warm and calm. You're tremendously comfortable.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “What will we do to pass the time?” She stroked his stomach until he caught her wrist in strong fingers and pressed her hand lower in the way that always gave her a thrill. 

He was hard, but she made him harder with gentle touches and half-suggested caresses that made his breath come short and his muscles tense. Her focus narrowed as the drug crept upon her, and her mind was all soft skin and hardness and moving so his head fell back and his breathing became desperate. A little smug smile curled on her lips when he shuddered and thrust against her hand, and she kissed his damp temple. It took, she noted, a few moments for him to collect himself before he could look at her with cool eyes and murmur, “very good. Now, let us see….”

She was already excited from watching him come, and something luxurious and soft was spreading through her system. He tried his mouth on her breast. “Aaaaaahhh.” She arched up as if she was trying to chase the feeling into his body. He pushed her back down gently. 

He was in no hurry to stop, working gently with his teeth and tongue as she cried out and tangled her fingers in his hair. Interesting, she didn't normally let herself do that. She didn't see his self-satisfied smile. When he stopped, she lay back bonelessly across his arm. “Good. Very good. Just relax. You will enjoy this.” He kissed her mouth.

And she did. Everything was warm and arousing - the slip of the sheets against her skin, his kisses on her back, the slight swimming she felt when she moved her head. The slide of his skin on hers as he laid her down beside him and propped himself on an elbow. He ran his hand over her, enjoying her shudders.

He tightened his hand in her hair. “Now. Spread your legs.”

Her breath had gone shallow and hopeful. She felt a throb in her stomach at the command and obeyed, settling herself decorously on her back. She waited for whatever came next.

He eased his hand between her thighs. He let her wait. He adjusted his grip in her hair, firm but not at all painful. He slipped two fingers down her wet seam and held her head on the pillow as she writhed, her cries growing louder when he tightened his grasp and held her firmly, fingers dividing and spreading her open.

“Now move yourself against my hand. Find what feels best.”

She had a dim sense that the instruction might have made her feel unsure, usually. What if it didn’t work and he got bored? That seemed ridiculous now. She shivered and moved against him as he'd instructed. It all felt delicious, she thought. She hit a lucky angle, and yellow-gold pangs of pleasure speared outwards. Shamelessly, she chased the sensation, lifting her hips and rubbing herself against his hand. He adjusted his caresses to help and she moaned. 

“That's it.” His voice was soft with affection as she ground herself against him and cried out. When she came, she grabbed his wrist and held it in place, writhing against him. She wasn’t sure if that had been allowed, but she didn’t much care just now. He only said softly, “you're doing very well.” She drifted in his arms after, as he kissed the salt from her brow. 

When he used his mouth on her, the space inside her head became a riot of colour. It was blue silk and purple-blue crepe and soft cream feathers. Everything he did felt incredible, and when he penetrated her at last, she groaned and clutched at him and moved under him as she had under his hand, without embarrassment. “Aaaaaa! Aaaaahhhh!” She came like a fit had taken her, with her whole body tensing and moving and spasming under him. She clutched his shoulders, wide-eyed, as he finished inside her with a few deep, final thrusts that made her shiver with the last dregs of pleasure. And then it was over. She managed to say “oh. My.” 

He didn’t move for a moment, and then he did, smoothing her hair down before collapsing on his side of the bed. He found her hand and held it for a moment.

“I think I'm sleepy now,” she added. Her words slurred a little, which surprised her. She thought she felt quite normal now. She drank the glass of water he brought her and let him tidy her with soft cloths. 

“Do that. I'll be here.”

And like a kitten, she fell asleep immediately. The drug itself wasn't soporific, he thought, but it did relax the body. Maybe this would help to relieve the dull layer of fatigue he had observed more and more of late; she had been tired, from school and from family worries. 

He stepped into the shower alone. He wavered on his feet. He blinked hard and reminded his body that up was that way and down was that way, and keep them straight. He hadn’t slept the night before, working. The previous night, he had stayed up marking and reconsidering his approach to the spring term. And then this idea had occurred, and he’d been curious to see if she would be intrigued, if she would like it. He smiled faintly as he soaped, scrubbed, rinsed. He worked out the cramp in his arm from the evening’s pleasure. He would rest now. 

She was curled up into a ball, the white sheets and quilt haphazard around her. She breathed heavily in a deep sleep. 

Her active mind never allowed naps. He straightened the bedclothes, wrapped her carefully, brushed the hair from her face, and put an arm around her. He lay next to her while she slept. His eyes were closed, but he didn't sleep for some time. This was too precious to miss. He listened to her breathing, let her warmth soak into his chest and arm, inhaled the sweet smell of her skin. He relaxed, as enwrapped by the warmth and peace as she. He was satisfied with the afternoon’s achievements. _No one else knows you need to be cared for, my love._ They would have supper when she awoke, and then she would have to leave. He hid it well, how much he hated seeing her go. 

…

At the door, she kissed him good-bye, but she was slow to release him. “You don't do that ever, do you? Turn some of this,’ and she tapped his forehead “off.”

“I sampled the drug I gave you, to confirm its quality. But generally, no. Alcohol has some of the same effects.” He used drugs for wakefulness sometimes, but she didn't need to know that. “I forgot to say: I will be unavailable for the next four days.”

Again. She was disappointed. She tried not to show it. She nodded. “I'll see you in class then. And perhaps in four days?”

There was a tiny voice that spoke in his ear whenever they said farewell. _You should release this young woman. It was selfish of you to touch her, let alone engage her affections._ “In four days.” He was selfish. He would try harder, next time. _You're wasting her time._

…

And then the day came. 

They sat in the sunroom. The house had a parlour, but it had felt gloomy when he brought Leonie there, the chairs formal and unloved. He had cleared the sunroom of boxes and bought a set of furniture he thought might be more welcoming; pale varnished wood, thickly cushioned in a wheat colour. She liked to sprawl on the settee with a book and a mug of tea, balancing it on the cushion when she turned a page.

Today, the sky had alternated between cloud and sun; the light in the room changed from warm to cool and back again. They had been silent, except for turning pages and the faint scratch of his pen. Her feet were on his lap.

“What do you actually do, Cabal?” Her book was on the floor, her tea mug askew on her knee. She was tinted blue through his lenses.

He knew what she meant. “It is illegal.” Why prevaricate? She must have deduced that much. 

“Is it.” He couldn't read her expression. Her face was tilted to the sky. She might have been trying to see pictures in the clouds. “Murdering children illegal, or picking flowers in the park illegal?” 

“Somewhere in between.” He had never murdered a child, certainly. 

She nodded. Her gaze fell to his eyes. “I need to know what it is.” 

He knew the tone in her voice, and a chill went into him. Leonie had run up against something she would not compromise. 

He had known this would happen. She was too curious about him, too good at picking up details. He was not proud of what he was, but neither was he ashamed. It was simply necessary. It was about to destroy the only thing in years that had brought him happiness. _That had been happiness_ , he realized now. And it was about to hurt her. His heart faltered. Yes, this had been selfish. 

He wished he wasn't in his shirtsleeves. He disentangled himself; he would not feel the moment when she pulled away. 

More selfish, craven thoughts seized his mind for a moment. _Pick a fight. Distract her. You know how to distract her_. He did not consider lying. 

“You know I have my own researches. You know I am a scientist.” 

She nodded.

“I am a necrothologist.”

“You're a what? You're a necromancer?” 

“No! A necrothologist. It is-” no matter. “There is a distinction.”

“Is there? In the eyes of the law?”

His lips pursed. “Somewhat.” Necrothologists were less likely to be killed on sight. By the police, at least.

Her face was troubled. She removed the mug from her knee to the floor and sat up. “Show me.”

It was out of the question. She did not know enough to destroy him, yet. She could learn it, if she wanted, but she didn't have it yet. Showing her the lab would not be wise. But he stood, extended a hand to her. 

She hesitated, looked at his face, and took it. He pulled her to her feet, and then let her hand fall. He led her to the kitchen. He opened the door to the cellar and led her down. 

He moved the panel that hid the door; he sorted a key from his ring and held it in his fingers.

“Bluebeard’s secret room? Or have you been hiding a dungeon?” She smiled, pale as the clouded sunlight. She was blue; he was still wearing his glasses. He pulled them off his face, left them dangling from his hand.

“My laboratory. I would prefer it if you decided not to go in.”

The smile died away. She nodded, but she took the key. She unlocked the door.

***

_It was very clean,_ she thought. He had switched on the lights, and the illumination glared back from tile and steel. She didn’t want to be here, heaven knew. 

He knew how early she had guessed at a secret side to his life. It had been mysterious, romantic. Unreal. And she felt, in her heart, that she knew him. She knew what he was really like.

That hadn’t stopped her from noticing things. The times he would be mysteriously unavailable, despite his having no friends or family she had ever met. His references to his “work,” which she was unaccountably certain was not his teaching career. The heavy, flat box in his bag, which she had only seen open once. 

She didn’t believe he was doing anything wrong, but she still didn’t know what he was doing. Dad wouldn’t have liked the look of it. Half an hour ago, she had run out of rationalizations. She loved him, so she had to know. ’Necrothologist’ didn’t mean anything to her. It was a word out of old books. What did a necrothologist do, and was it bad? She had to see. 

It was a lab. It was outfitted for chemical work. Everything was neat and practical, as she’d expect. There were shelves of notebooks, and she knew they were filled with his hurried, precise script. There was a library of scientific texts with a strong bias towards biochemistry. It was better than her school’s collection. There was an odd collection on a separate bookcase, a mishmash of antique volumes and paperbacks with peeling covers and flaking pages. They were about the occult: she recognized a few titles. Everything spoke to years of quiet, eccentric research. 

Her brows un-knit. This was strange, yes, but it wasn’t terrible. If she could only get him to explain- and then she saw the mortuary slab. It was draped in a thick white cloth. The contours were terribly suggestive. She forgot everything else, forgot the cleanliness and the books ordered by the Dewey decimal system. She walked to the slab and took hold of the edge of the cloth.

“No.” Johannes was here, of course, suddenly beside her. He pulled the cloth from her hand. “You do not need to see that,” he explained gently. “You should not. It is what you think. We will return upstairs.” She felt relief.

They sat in the kitchen. 

“I don’t know where to start.” Leonie did not sip from her mug. It was scalding. She hadn’t asked for tea, but he had made it anyway. “You know this is creepy, don’t you? You know this isn’t normal. You have a corpse in your basement. Why? What do you do with a… with bodies?” She thought there might be a stronger reaction inside her somewhere, but she hadn’t found it yet. There was just her professor, Johannes Cabal, sitting across the kitchen table. He wore an unfamiliar, pinched expression of distress. She couldn’t be afraid of him, though she thought that perhaps she should be.

“A moment,” he said. He had not been prepared to lecture. He was surprised she was still here. He wondered, fiercely, what was going on in her mind. But if he could engage her curiosity, might there be a chance she could…? “A necrothologist studies the boundary between life and death. He studies it chemically, biologically, and, when absolutely necessary, mystically. And yes-“ he forestalled her objection with a hand. “That is illegal. But it is a stupid law, intended for madmen and murderers. It must not restrain research that could-.” He took a breath and made himself relax. He must keep his head. “My research will help humanity. Some day I will find a way to reverse death.” 

A drug lab, thought Leonie. That’s what she had really been expecting. She had decided, somewhere in her subconscious, that Johannes was mixing illegal drugs as a sideline. That he had been planning to retire to a private island, where he could avoid people and fill as many notebooks as his heart desired. That would have been bad, but it would have been normal. “Reverse death?”

“Yes.” He fought to stay silent for a moment, but he failed. “What if you were to die tomorrow? You, everything you are, gone from the earth. Shouldn’t there be a way to reverse that? For your sake, for your family’s, for everyone who loves you.” He unclenched his hand, made himself take a breath.

This was like a different person, she thought. This passion, this obsession was beneath the regulated face he showed the world. She had seen beneath it, but not this far. 

“An act may be a crime without being wrong. I study, I write, I - yes, I admit it - I take the specimens and materials I need for my research. Perhaps that is wrong, but it is the lesser evil.”

“But Johannes: you can't cheat death.”

“May not or cannot?” His expression had gone flat. “I can and I will. And death cheats all the time.”

She stood. She kissed him on the brow. He was only half-finished his lecture, she could tell, but she would not stay for the rest. She had enough to consider already.

Cabal heard the front door close behind her. It was not until the next morning he found she had left her keys in the letterbox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me?


End file.
